


Wolves

by GRINtelligencer



Series: Salvage [1]
Category: Star Wars: Clone Wars (2003) - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Divergence - Order 66, Canon-Typical Injury Level, Canon-Typical Violence, Everything is sort of okay?, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Order 66 feels, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26556502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GRINtelligencer/pseuds/GRINtelligencer
Summary: Commander Wolffe doesn’t completely lose himself when Order 66 goes out. Plo Koon doesn’t die when his ship is shot down.Those two things are enough to start a change.An Order 66 AU.
Series: Salvage [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931338
Comments: 10
Kudos: 300





	Wolves

**Author's Note:**

> After rewatching the Clone Wars show I was looking through tags and ran across a drawing by jasjuliet and a short fic by kaasknot that sparked off the idea that became this fic. Full credit to kaasknot for the idea that Wolffe’s eye wound messed with his chip and full credit to jasjuliet for the torrent of feels I had after seeing that sketch.
> 
> Star Wars is very much not where I usually hang out and looking up things in this series can be a bit of a rabbit hole, I tried my best on the world details.

Pain throbbed from behind Wolffe’s prosthetic eye as he watched the smoke curl up in the distance. From his place on the landing pad he couldn’t see the wreckage of the Jedi starfighter, a treacherous part of him was glad for that. It shouldn’t have been, all the Jedi were traitors. Ordering General Plo shot out of the sky had been just following orders.

Good soldiers followed orders.

Another stab of pain laced through his skull and he winced, hand going up his bucket on instinct. He hadn’t hit it in the short dogfight before the transmission, hadn’t taken any injury that he could think of, there was no reason for the throb that felt like it was trying to move from behind his eye to settle in the back of his skull.

Perhaps the prosthetic was malfunctioning, the long necks had said it was a prototype when it’d been installed. He’d been in and out of it from the head trauma at the time but he remembered them fluttering around, doing all kinds of annoying scans on his brain, murmuring about breakages. One had tried to put him on the terminate list before General Plo put his foot down, demanding his commander be returned.

When he’d finally stepped off the the transport, hair freshly shaved around the surgery scars and eye still taped over, General Plo had met him, setting one clawed hand on his shoulder.

“It’s good to have you back, Commander.” he’d said, “I need your eyes at my back.”

Wolffe had stared at him for a full ten seconds before he broke and rolled his good eye. General Plo had laughed, deep and rasping through his mask, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes giving away his smile.

“Come, Commander, your troopers have missed you.” Moving his hand to Wolffe’s back he propelled him along toward the barracks and his waiting men. And the mountain of logistical issues that came with leading a company.

“CC-3636?”

The voice pulled him back to the present.

General Plo. Smoke in the air.

He dropped his hand from his helmet and turned to CT-8982, who saluted. “No sign of other Jedi traitors, sir. All clones compliant with orders and awaiting commands.” CT-8982 stood strait, at attention, clearing awaiting expected orders.

Wolffe looked at the smoke and felt the twist in his gut. The general’s starfighter had glanced off a building before it went down, skidding and ricocheting. It had hit slow enough that he might still be alive, Wolffe had certainly seen Jedi survive worse.

Protocol demanded they check the wreckage. CC-3636 knew that. Wolffe felt sick at the thought and his head kept throbbing.

But the men were looking to him, CT-8982’s hand had started drifting to his blaster. Clones who didn’t follow this most important of orders were as guilty as the Jedi. Those would die with the other traitors to the Republic. 

He straitened his shoulders, pushed down the thought of the insignia on his shoulder plate and made sure his voice was firm. “Form up on me. The wreckage must be cleared, be on the lookout for the Jedi traitor’s-- for the body.”

Boots rang on the metal of the landing pad as the men scrambled into formation. For a moment the silence that would have normally been filled with good natured heckling rang empty and hollow. His eye throbbed and he had to stop the full body flinch.

“Sir?” CT-8982’s head was cocked to the side, concern tinging his voice. “Do I need to get the medic?”

“No.” CC-3636 waved him down. “It’s nothing. Confirming the Jedi’s death is priority right now.” he said and was glad for his bucket, which hid the way he couldn’t quite get his face to match the blankness of his words. 

He ignored the pain in his head and led the men at a determined march toward the distant smoke.

-

The starfighter had indeed broken up on its impacts, one wing lay nearby smoldering slightly, the other wing and the nose of the craft were fifty yards in the other direction. The cockpit lay in a broken tangle of the rubble from the wall it had take down with it, smoke was rising from its sparking depths.

Wolffe set most of the men to searching the wings, splitting them in half to catalogue the wreckage. He kept two men with him, even though the thought of why made his head ache. What did orders care that Boost and Sinker had been with him and the general for years now? Why did it matter they made up what was left of the original Wolfpack?

It was inefficient, taking so few men into the rubble where they would be obscured from the rest of the company. But it was necessary, he knew that in a bone deep place that was deeper then the place that said good soldiers followed orders.

He and his men picked their way through the toppled ruins of the building, toward the shattered cockpit. The rubble threw strange shadows, making it hard to see clearly if there was someone in the seat or not. Cautiously he stepped forward, blaster aimed, his men at his back, peering down through the broken glass.

The seat was empty. He felt a treacherous flare of relief and stamped it down hard.

Blood smeared the left side of the cockpit straps and a piece missing on that side was large enough a man could have easily fit through it. Beyond the cockpit something stirred in the shadows of the rubble.

Instantly Wolffe threw up a hand, signing the other troopers to hold. They obeyed but from the scuff of boots on his left Boost--  _ CT-7236 _ , he correct himself, wasn’t happy about it.

Good soldiers followed orders and they didn’t hesitate.

“I’ll deal with the General myself.” he said, slinging his blaster over his shoulder and drawing his pistol. “Watch for other Jedi or traps.”

Planting a hand on the glass he vaulted the cockpit, landing on the other side with a crunch of rubble. The shadow shifted, it was low, like a figure crouching or… leaning?

His karking eye throbbed, a bolt of pain so fierce he staggered, free hand going up to his bucket. There was something else, something on his face.

He could feel something on his skin, sensation where there should have been nothing.

Was this a Jedi mind trick? Or had he taken that head wound after all?

Here, hidden from the sight of his men he could tear off his helmet without worrying about repercussions. Vision was blurry, both the prosthetic and natural eye effected.

His bucket thunked as it slipped from his hand and his reached to his cheek.

There were tears running from his prosthetic eye when he touched his face.

“… Commander …Wolffe?”

The voice from the shadows made him look up from his wet fingertips.

He stepped closer, finally able to make out the form in the gloom. General Plo was slumped against the concrete piece, cradling his side, white vambrace stained red. He was streaked with soot and dust, a cut high on his head bleeding down over his cheekbone, pooling in the corner of his eye protector.

“General Plo?” Wolffe whispered.

His general.

The Jedi.

The  _ traitor _ .

His pistol was up, aimed, center mass. He didn’t remember raising it. He couldn’t miss at this range.

Pain in his head made him sway. His hand was shaking, making the pistol waver. He gripped it with both hands, trying to steady his aim. The general was drawing himself up, slow and deliberate.

CC-3636 needed to fire, he had to kill the Jedi before he escaped. Wolffe wanted to sob and drop the blaster.

He wasn’t sure which one was right.

“Good soldiers follow orders.” 

“Who gave you those orders?” General Plo asked gently, taking a step toward him.

Wolf flinched, only now realizing he’d spoken aloud. “Good soldiers follow orders.” he repeated, trying to emphasise it but he sounded mechanical, even to himself. 

“Who’s orders?” the general asked again. He took another step, then another, not seeming to mind the pistol Wolffe was struggling to keep steady on his chest. 

“General… please…” Wolffe’s head was on fire with pain, tears streaking down his cheeks from both eyes. 

Slowly General Plo reached out and put a hand on his pistol. Gently he pushed the weapon down. “Who’s orders, Wolffe?” he asked, low and close.

His voice wavered, words coming harder then they should have, “I… there’s something wrong, something in my head. He… he ordered and we shot you down.”

“Who?” General Plo released the pistol, now safely pointed at the ground between them. He took the last step forward he needed to clasp taloned hands on either side of his head, fingers more gentle then Wolffe had any right to ask.

One of the general’s hands was tacky from blood.

A shudder tore through him, his head ached, and Wolffe forced himself to speak. “The Chanceller. The  _ Sith _ .” The hands on his head went tense but he didn’t dare stop, not now, “He-- he said the Jedi were traitors, we should kill you and any clone that refused to comply. And we-- sir, we-- it was like something else was in my head-- I had them fire on you, sir and--” he could feel the tears tracking down his cheeks, pain was the white hot in his head but he couldn’t move with the general’s hands holding him.

The general was leaning close, the creases between his eyes showing he was frowning in concentration.

CC-3636 still had his pistol in hand. It would only take a moment for him to raise it. Wolffe  _ didn’t want to _ .

“Please, General,” he said. “I-I can’t-- I don’t want to hurt you, I--”

“I know you don’t,” General Plo murmured, “I never doubted.” his grip was firm, face still drawn, he had an expression like he was searching for something.

The muscles in Wolffe’s arms were locked, part of him wanted to raise his weapon, part of him fighting that urge as hard as he could, “Sir, you have to run, it--it’s not safe for--” he swallowed thickly, his arms were shaking now, fingers cramping around the grip of his pistol as his eye felt like it was on fire, “Please, I don’t want to--”

Then there was a feeling like  _ crunch _ in his head and the pain just… went away.

His knees went out from under him and he went down hard. The general tried to catch him under the arms was he went down, made a pained sound, and ended up on his knees right beside him.

It was Wolffe that dropped his pistol into the dust between them and raised a hand that no longer shook to the side of his skull.

“There was something in your head.” General Plo said. “A chip. It was trying to effect your mind.”

“You broke it.” A statement, not a question.

The general inclined his head. “I apologize, it took some searching to locate what was hurting you.”

He blinked at him. “I… almost shot you, sir. You don’t need too…  _ we shot you down. _ How can I even--”

But General Plo was reaching out to put his hands on either side of his head again, holding him gently, his voice holding a kindness he knew for a fact he didn’t deserve, “It wasn’t your fault, Wolffe.”

He had his general’s blood on his skin, even with his own word forgiving him he wasn’t sure he could forgive himself that. His eyes were burning again, full of tears that had nothing to do with fighting his own head. He squeezed them shut, unable to look at General Plo, not after what he’d almost done, what he’d  _ done _ \--

“Commander!” The shout from the far side of the starfighter cockpit, CT-7236, no,  _ Boost _ sounded worried, “Are you alright? Is the Jedi…”

Wolffe met his general’s eyes through the tinted lenses of his eye protectors and could tell they shared the same thought.

How much had the other men heard?

It had been a fairly quiet standoff, the men were some way away, with the cockpit’s wreckage between them they wouldn’t have been able to see anything.

With General Plo so close he barely had to whisper to be heard, “Can you free them?”

His general nodded, “I--” then he paused and looked at Wolffe. His hands were firm on Wolffe’s face as he leaned forward to tap their foreheads together, “ _ We _ can save them.”

And he was right.

Wolffe closed his eyes, grounding himself in the feel of his general’s forehead against his, his fingers against his cheeks.

They could do this.

He drew back, digging in his belt pouch for bacta and bandages for the general.

“Sir?” came Boost’s voice again, more concerned then before.

A glance at General Plo showed he was pulling himself to his feet, hand to his bloody side but unwavering. Wolffe grabbed his bucket to shove on as he pushed himself to his feet too.

One at a time, they could probably handle that.

One thing at a time. One trooper at a time.

“CT-7236.” he called, “To me.”

-

It was slow, agonizing work.

They had to be so careful, just one mistake and a stray shot from a trooper could take the general down before he could do whatever he did to fix them.

Two with him had been the easiest, all Wolffe’d had to do was call them over the cockpit one at a time. The other squads were more difficult.

But they figured it out, mostly by keeping the general out of sight until he could get hands on each trooper. One by one they’d cleared them, purging the control of the chip out of each and every one of them until the entire Wolfpack was clear.

It hadn’t been easy, the general looked exhausted by the time they hauled the last man to him. With Warthog’s chip crushed General Plo had sagged, sliding down the nearby wall to sit, holding his bloody side, breath shallow. The quick patch job Wolffe had done had only been meant to hold him for a little.

Stitches, the Wolfpack’s medic, was leaning over him now, fingers working fast, speaking in a low voice. His brows were drawn together in a frown but the assessment he’d given Wolffe was non-fatal, several deep lacerations, broken ribs, and bruises aplenty. A narrow escape.

It made cold fingers prickle at Wolffe’s spine to think how close it had been. Jedi really did have universe’s best luck.

A muffled sob made him look up, just in time to see Sinker pull a shiny into his shoulder so he could burry his face there, tremors wracking his body. Sinker’s eyes as he patted the kid’s back were overbright.

All around him brothers sat or stood in various states of shock. The chip’s destruction had brought them back to themselves but Wolffe didn’t have a doubt there was a one among them that would ever forget the feeling after the order had gone out. All of them, their names, their selves, swept away with one order.

He knew he’d be revisiting that feeling and the rising plume of smoke afterward in his nightmares for many nights to come.

His general’s blood was tacky on his skin from the handprint he’d left. But his head didn’t hurt anymore.

They were good soldiers and their orders were bantha-shit.

Woffle turned back to General Plo. “What now, sir?”

General Plo raised his head to meet his eye, “I suspect the GAR is no more,” he said, “ I am no longer your general, Wolffe.”

“With all due respect, you’re not getting rid of us that easily.”

He chuckled. “I am touched, truely.”

“Sir?” Stitches sat back from the bandage he had just finished tying off, a frown on his face as if something had only just occurred to him. “We have men back on the ship. They won’t-- they’ll still be controlled.”

“Then we’ll have to free them.” General Plo said, in that firm tone that made it clear he couldn’t see any other outcome. “We might need to go to ground for some time but I would like to free all your brothers.”

“The entire army?” Stitches sounded incredulous, “Even if we go one company at a time that’s one karking big risk.”

“We’ve faced worse odds.” Wolffe said.

General Plo beamed at him, “I couldn’t have said it better myself, commander.”

-

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a oneshot but ended up spawning another idea and then another and well, I'm not quite sure how long this little AU will end up being. Whoops.
> 
> I'm hoping to get the next fic up soon!


End file.
